The Girl Who Couldn’t Sleep
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie? Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions!
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie?
Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions! Share your eerie, unexplained, or downright chilling encounters in the comments below…
The Girl Who Couldn’t Sleep
When my son was around two or three, he had an imaginary friend—a little girl he talked to constantly.
"She’s like me," he would say. I didn’t think much of it at first. Kids have wild imaginations, after all. But strange things started happening.
Toys in the toy box would go off in the middle of the night—even when they were switched off. I would hear tiny, frantic footsteps on the stairs, but when I checked, no one was there.
Still, I never felt afraid.
One day, I mentioned it to a friend who was spiritually sensitive. She listened carefully before giving me simple advice:
"Next time you hear her, just tell her to stop and go to bed."
So I did.
The next time I heard the running on the stairs, I whispered into the dark, "Go to bed now, sweetheart. It’s time to sleep."
The noises stopped immediately.
It worked every time.
One night, my son looked up at me, his big eyes filled with concern.
"She says she’s sorry," he murmured.
"Sorry for what?" I asked.
He hesitated. "She just has too much energy. She can't sleep."
I felt a chill creep down my spine.
"Where does she go when she can’t sleep?" I asked him gently.
He tilted his head as if listening. Then he gave me a small, solemn smile.
"She runs up and down the stairs."
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie? Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions! Share your eerie, unexplained, or downright chilling encounters in the comments below, and your story could be featured on the blog—and in an upcoming book collection published by Mark Watson Books.
How It Works:
Submit Your Story – Send us your true, spine-chilling experience either by replying to this email or in the comments. It can be a firsthand account or a story passed down to you—just make sure it's real!
Get Featured on the Blog – If selected, your story will be published on Home-made Creepypasta, where thousands of horror fans can read and share it.
Be Considered for the Book – The best, most terrifying stories will be chosen for an exclusive Home-made Creepypasta book collection, published by Mark Watson Books. Your name (or a pseudonym, if you prefer) will be included as a contributor.
This is your chance to have your true horror story immortalized in print. Submit now… if you dare. 👁️👁️
Home-made Creepypasta – Story Submission Terms and Conditions
By submitting your story to Home-made Creepypasta, you acknowledge that you have read, understood, and agreed to the following terms:
1. Ownership & Rights
You confirm that the story you are submitting is your original work or a firsthand account that you have permission to share.
By submitting, you grant Home-made Creepypasta and Mark Watson Books a non-exclusive, worldwide, royalty-free, perpetual license to use, reproduce, modify, publish, distribute, and create derivative works from your story in any format (including digital and print).
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We reserve the right to edit your story for clarity, grammar, structure, and length while maintaining its core narrative.
Titles and formatting may be adjusted to fit our blog or publication style.
3. Publishing & Compensation
Submission does not guarantee publication. Stories may be featured on the blog, social media, and/or in a book collection published by Mark Watson Books.
You will not be credited in published works (under your real name, pseudonym, or anonymously).
No monetary compensation is provided for submissions unless explicitly stated in a separate written agreement.
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You retain ownership of your story and can publish it elsewhere, but you grant us ongoing rights to use it even if you later post it on another platform.
5. Content Guidelines
Stories should be true and based on personal experiences or accounts passed down to you. While minor embellishments for storytelling are acceptable, submissions found to be completely fictional will be disqualified.
No submissions containing hate speech, explicit violence, or illegal content will be accepted.
6. Withdrawal of Submission
If you wish to retract your story after submission, you may request removal before publication. However, once published in the book collection, removal is not guaranteed.
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✔ Are at least 18 years old or have parental consent.
✔ Understand that Home-made Creepypasta and Mark Watson Books have the right to publish your story in various formats.
✔ Accept that no payment is guaranteed for submissions.
If you do not agree with these terms, please do not submit your story.
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870 words
Grandma Bixby's Teeth
Everyone loved Grandma Bixby. You could tell by the big crowd at her funeral. There must have been a hundred mourners passing by her coffin. My Mom knew her and dragged me there and I have to say, the old bat never looked better. The funeral home did a swell job with the clothes and the make up. I hardly recognized her as the line of mourners shuffled closer to the coffin. Her hair was neat and her teeth were polished. You never saw the old lady actually wearing her dentures. She always kept them soaking in a glass of water next to her bed.
The reason I know about the glass with the teeth in it is because I saw them first hand. She wasn't wearing them the last time I saw her,at least not so I noticed. She was walking down the street looking just as feisty and messy and old as always. She walked pretty good for an old lady. Sure she used a cane but she moved right along. I was standing on the corner drinking tall cold ones with my man Shooter. We were just passing the bag back and forth when Shooter stopped her.
"Hey Grandma, where you goin'?" said Shooter. "You like a hit?" offering her the bag.
Grandma stopped and fixed us in a steely gaze and pointed her cane at me and said, "Norman Jefferson and Marcus James, why ain't you boys in school? Standin' on this corner, drinkin' and wastin' your life away. I knew both your daddy's and they was hard workin', god fearin' men. You boys get yourselves to school now, hear? Don't you want to amount to something?"
Me 'n Shooter just laughed and Grandma cast us an evil eye and walked off muttering to herself. I don't think she had her teeth in then, she hardly ever wore them but I really don't remember. But I do remember Shooter takin 'a good pull off the bag and sayin', "I bet she's goin' to the bank to cash her social security check. I hear she takes that money home an hides it away. I bet she's got a shit load of money sittin' in a drawer somewhere."
Well. maybe it was the beer, but before we knew it we was climbin' the fire escape to Grandma's apartment not fifteen minutes later. I swear, it was a piece of cake. Shooter knew just where she lived on account of her being his momma's aunt and all. Her window wasn't open but it didn't take all that much to get inside. The place looked like it was a hundred years old which was probably not too far from the truth. Old black and white photographs in old fashioned frames hung on the walls. The furniture was old, the linoleum was old, even the refrigerator looked like it came from an antique store. Anyway, Shooter got right to work lookin' for the money. He was dumpin' stuff out of drawers and closets and makin' a tremendous mess. All he found was old lady hats and old lady underpants and funny shit that nobody wears anymore. But there was no damn money. Shooter was gettin;' angrier by the minute.
I was lookin' under Grandma's bed and checking out the mattress when I noticed the glass with Grandma's teeth in it. It gave me the creeps because those teeth were following Shooter around the room like they were watchin' him. I tore off Grandma's bedding while old Shooter began dumping out the kitchen out of pure meanness.
Just then, the door opened and Grandma walked in. She looked from Shooter to me and just shook her head from side to side. She never got to say a word before Shooter grabbed her cane and began beating her over the head with it. It was a good solid cane and it didn't take too many blows to drive the life right out of the old lady.
The whole time, the teeth in the glass fixed their gaze on Shooter and when he delivered the fifth or sixth blow, the teeth began to chatter. That's when I ran from the room and down the fire escape all the way home. I never saw what happened to Shooter. I heard they found his body in the alley. They say he must have been attacked by a pack of dogs, he was so chewed up. I don't know. I never saw any dogs when I was running home.
The line moves so slow. Lots of people from the neighborhood crying and saying goodbye. The funeral people did a good job on her. You can't see her bloody head. She looks peaceful. A lot of people are putting flowers on the coffin. My mother is just ahead of me. She lays a rose on the wooden box. Now it's my turn. I put my rose on the coffin. I don't want to look at her face. I'm sorry for what I done. I try to say I'm sorry to Grandma but before I can open my mouth I see that grandma has opened hers. Her teeth look at me and chatter.
how and where does one submit a story??